Leaving New Jersey
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: Wilson returns to the hospital after two months. It's not what you think. AU, slash, character death, drug use, swearing, OOC, etc Spoilers for all episodes to date I think it's finished, but I could be convinced to do another chapter just ask nicely.


No one knows what its like, to be the bad man,

No one knows what its like, to be the bad man,  
to be the sad man, behind blue eyes.  
No one knows what its like, to be hated,  
to be fated, to telling only lies, but my dreams,  
they aren't as empty as my conscience seems to be.  
I have hours, only lonely. My love is vengeance,  
that's never free. No one knows what its like  
to feel these feelings, like I do, and I blame you," The Who

Two months bereavement leave probably wasn't anywhere near enough time, but my paitents needed me. Every second I spent in the hall of the hospital, or the exam rooms, every time I smelled that ammonia stench, I was reminded of the night of the accident. I couldn't be anywhere other than my office without seeing those stat monitors again in my memory, watching them flat line. Five minutes after I parked, I ran up to my office, and hid. At least in there I didn't have to think about the crash. At least there I was safe from the smell, the staring, and the whispered conversations.

"_What's he doing back here so soon?"_

"_He looks like crap."_

"_I heard he's resigning." _

"_Poor guy."_

Despite what they thought, or said behind my back, everyone was great to my face. Everybody was super nice, cutting me slack, pretending it was no big deal, taking care of my paitents, calling me, offering to bring me food, or whatever else I want. I'm sure they all gossiped about me, but I didn't care. I'd lost the only person I had ever loved, and was in too much pain to function. Technically, I should have been working at all, but the only thing worse than sitting in my office, not doing anything, was being at home not doing anything.

I felt like—I don't know what, exactly; House is the metaphor man. I wanted to ask him more than anything, but I couldn't. Sometime after I arrived, House knocked on my door, and sat down in one of the two big, overstuffed chairs.

"What's up?" he asked, looking at my face carefully.

"Go away;" I spat. "I can't do this right now."

"I'm glad you came back."

"I'm not…I'm taking some more time off."

"Wow, you're really milking this whole grief thing. I mean—good for you."

"Get out, now," I ordered, and he looked at me sadly. 'Go away!" He nodded, and left the room. A few seconds later, there was another knock on the door. "I thought I just told you to go away."

"Can I come in?" Lisa asked, leaning her head past the door. Before she knocked, I had been looking at some pictures. We had gone somewhere with one of those instant photo booths, and done a roll of snapshots. Most of them were goofy faces, but there was one, the two of us close, arms around each other, faces pressed together. These were pretty much the only pictures of us together, anywhere. I didn't mind, all I had to do was close my eyes, and I still saw everything perfectly. She walked up to my desk, even though I hadn't given her permission.

"What are you doing?" I asked, hiding the pictures, wiping my face, and pretended to smile. "Yeah, you can come in." I stared out the window, towards the balcony, wishing with all my heart for Greg to step outside and give me the look. Then I could get out of this stupid conversation, (not that I felt like talking to him either) but it would never happen. "You here to try and get me to make up with House?" Cuddy stared at me for a moment, sadly.

"I'd really like it if you would talk to somebody, you know… counseling." I snorted. _Yeah, right, like that's gonna help._ "We're worried abut you. We—" I had to cut her off there. I couldn't hear any more stupid lies about this.

"You gonna tell me how sorry you are, or that you understand the loss I'm feeling right now?" I asked, angrily. "Nobody in this hospital gave crap. You don't even like him. So, don't try and tell me different."

"I care about _you _Wilson, isn't that enough?" she asked, touching me on the arm. "I set up an appointment with Dr. Carver." _Ironic name,_ I thought. _Too bad he's not a surgeon._ "Am I going to need to drag you down there at 2:00?"

"I'll go." In the office next door, I saw Kutner, Taub, Foreman, and Thirteen discussing something. Eric was writing on the white board. "What's going on with the team?" I asked, remembering his rule aobut the markers.

"They've got a case, woman's right's activist…hallucinations, and itching. It's okay. She'll be fine. We have the best minds in the world working on that case."

"Yeah, okay," I whispered, opening a file on my computer, pretending it was related to a paitent or something medical, but really it was one of those joke emails, forwarded to me about ten weeks earlier. "You ca go now; unless you wanna make out or something." Lisa flashed a quick smile, and left. As soon as she was gone, I locked my door, pulled the blinds down, read the email three times, and started to cry. I sobbed for what seemed like an eternity. When I was too exhausted to keep going, I stood up, went to the bathroom, washed my face, and headed for the shrink's office.

I sat in Dr. Carver's office, not saying anything, trying not to think about much of anything for the first twenty minutes of our session. He tried to ask me questions, but I only answered by nodding or shaking my head.

"You do know that this doesn't work if you don't say anything. You have to talk to me so I can know what's wrong. If we don't talk, we aren't going to make any progress, and you aren't going to feel better, ever."

"What do you want me to say?" I snapped.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, studying my face, as though he could read my mind—or maybe just my expressions.

"I'm okay."

"Really?"

"Yeah," I lied, "I'm great."

"Have you spoken to anyone about the accident? What about a support group? Dr. House? You guys were pretty close friends, right?"

"So?"

"If the two of you were more than that, it makes all of this more difficult. Relationships are complicated, and when they change suddenly, well it makes things difficult." I didn't like the way he was talking to me, was starting to make me nervous. I wanted to get out of there, but knew Cuddy would never let me get a new job until she was sure I wasn't totally mental, and in danger of killing someone…or myself.

"What difference does it make? Our relationship ended two months ago. He's not my—we're not friends any more. None of this garbage matters, and you're an idiot for thinking that it does!"

"Not friends any more, that's an interesting—" I stood up and stormed out of the room before he could say anything else. Cameron stopped me in the lobby. _Typical_, I thought. _Now she thinks we're gonna cry together, and I'll be all better._

"You do good work here. Do you really want to leave because of a—because of one bad night?"

"I just…can't be here anymore." She touched my hand softly. _Jeez, seems like everyone's doing that today. Maybe I'll get lucky_. "What did you do when it happened to you?"

"Quit my job and moved across the country," she admitted. "It didn't change anything. I felt…I still feel exactly the same."

"I was sitting in the locker room this morning, and it reminded me of…"

"I saw a scarf this more, and it made me think of his eyes. We lived a hundred and fifty miles from here."

"I need to get away," I told her, and Alison nodded, hugging me gently. "Thanks for listening." She nodded, and gave me a small, sad smile. "I have to go home; I can't be here right now."

"Wait," she called, when I was halfway across the room. Cameron raced to my side once again. "I'm going with you." _Why does everybody think I can't b left alone, _I wondered, but knew better than to ask. "You have to talk to somebody about this." House saw us, and limped over.

"She's right, Jimmy. And if I can't help, maybe…somebody else can."

"How is that gonna help?" I asked him, but she must have been ignoring Greg because she answered and he didn't get a chance.

"Because this kind of pain doesn't go away if you just bottle it all up and pretend like nothing is wrong. Trust me, talking makes—talking does help. At first it hurts just as much to talk than to not do anything, but after a while, it gets better."

"I was crying in my office for an hour and a half this afternoon. Isn't that good enough for everybody and their stupid snooping?" I asked, handing my car keys over without complaining. I tried to keep Greg from getting in the car, but he climbed into the back seat, making that, _please don't do this right now_ look.

"It was just a freak accident. There was no way anybody could have prevented it. There's—you can't. That is, this is not your fault. It's not anybody's fault."

"I know."

"You think I don't get mad sometimes? It's a whole lot easier than thinking about all the stuff you wished you said, all the things you never got to do, all the time you could have had. It took me more than five years to feel even slightly normal again, and I'm still…not normal."

"I—what do you want me to say?" I asked, rolling the window down, and staring out at the passing cars, praying one would smash into my side. At least then it would be over, and we could be together.

"Everyone says you refuse to talk about what happened that night. You didn't even tell the police. Trust me, I know it's hard, but his will help. You have to talk about it sometime. If you want, I still go to this support group from time to time. I'll come with you."

"I just wanna go home." She nodded, but kept driving down the hallway, long past my exit. "You just gonna keep on driving until I tell you what happened?"

"Either that or we run out of gas." I sighed. This was it. I didn't have a choice. _Who knows_, I thought. _Maybe she's right. _

"Cameron knows more about this than anybody else, right?"

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay. I was getting ready to leave work, and go back to my hotel room. It wasn't that I was mad, or didn't wanna be with Greg, just didn't always do it that way. Sometimes we—well we don't have to be together 24/7. He walked up to me in the parking lot, wanted me to go with to his place. I said okay, but—he wanted to take the bike, even though I tried to fight him on it. You know what he's like."

"Hey," House muttered from the backseat.

"I was scared you know…drug addict, open vehicle, high speeds, it just seemed dangerous. He wasn't—it wasn't bad though. Actually, it wasn't bad. You wanna know something funny? He was wearing the only helmet, but I was barely even hurt. I—I dunno if he saw it, tried to protect e, or if it just happened. We weren't flying. My ankle was broken bad. It was turned almost all the way around, but I was conscious. Greg his skinny pipe looking thing—I'm not sure where it came from--it was sticking out of his chest. It looked so bad. I had to do something. I dragged myself over to his side; it hurt like Hell but…he smiled when he saw me, and I could see the other driver, he was pretty far way. Well, he looked far away, but he was calling 9-1-1. I held House in my arms, and we just sat there for a while.

He looked up at me and said, 'don't be sad, Jimmy; doesn't even hurt.' I offered him the pain killers, but he wouldn't take them. Just lay there, telling me, 'it's gonna be okay.'" I sobbed. "He was dying, with a seventeen-inch hunk of steel sticking out of his ribcage, blood flowing out of the giant hole in his abdomen, but he's telling me everything is gonna be okay" I needed to stop talking, for a minute, while I calmed down.

I turned around and looked in the backset. He was gone again. It had been happening a lot ever since the accident. Sometimes I saw him, sometimes I didn't… "He bled out waiting on the stupid EMTs. The drunken bastard, who hit us, didn't have a scratch on him! I can—I can barely walk, Greg is gone, and this moron—should have made him get in my car. It's as much my fault as the idiot's." Cameron pulled the car onto some small residential street, parked by the curb, got out, and hugged me. We sat quietly for along time before she took me back to the apartment and stayed overnight, on the couch. I spent the afternoon, just sitting on the couch, watching General Hospital, occasionally talking—mostly making House-like comments and jokes—and taking pain killers for my leg.

"You're gonna be care with those, right?" She asked, but what she meant was, _you're not him. I can see it in your eyes; you're barely conscious. Sure as Hell won't be able to work on Vicodin._ I shrugged, and out the pills back in my pocket. "How bad is the pain?"

"It's been two months. I did the physical therapy, and the visualization crap, and everything else, but…it's not getting better. It hurts, and it's gonna keep on hurting. Forever." She sat down beside me, hugged me and then kissed the top of my head. "Don't—please."

"I'm sorry; I don't know why I did that. I'm so sorry. I just—I'm sorry." After that she didn't try and make me talk anymore, this was especially good because Cameron was starting to get on my nerves.

The next morning, I woke up early, lay in bed, clutching House's pillow close to me like a teddy bear. The first week after he died, it still smelled like him, his shampoo, his soap, his heartache. It was almost like holding him in my arms, almost, but then the scent faded. Only, I told myself (over and over and over) it didn't really fade. _Smells like House, smells like House, smells like House_, I'd think, until I could smell him again. Shortly after that, I started using his products, soap, shampoo, cologne, everything, so his things would continue to smell like him, at least that's what I told myself. I probably wanted to pretend that he wasn't really gone, and doing all I could to keep up this delusion.

I woke up that morning, and even though it wasn't raining outside yet, I could feel that it would eventually. My ankle always hurt like Hell on days when the whether was wet. I muttered a couple curse words to myself, popped a handful of pills, and lay waiting for it to take effect. That's when I saw him, standing next to the mirror in the bathroom.

"House, please," I begged. "Don't go away, please don't go. I need you. I need you so bad, and I miss you so much."

"It's okay, Jimmy; you're okay. I know what it's like to live with pain; you know it now too. I can't go back to that, Jimmy. I'm okay, doesn't even hurt. You'll be okay; everything is gonna be okay."

"Then let me go with you! Don't wanna hurt. I can't. I'm not you. I'm not okay. It's never gonna be okay."

"Yes you will. It's okay."

"Stop saying that!" I screamed. House's ghost eye's widened and he looked at me the way he always die when I ever I used to yell at him. "Sorry. It just—hurts so much." I couldn't look him in the eyes.

"You're not like me, Wilson. You're strong, and—smart and funny. People like you. You'll be okay."

"No, not any more. Never be okay again." He sighed. "Take me with you, please. He took a step back, like he was thinking this had been a bad idea. "No, no-no-no-no, no. No, please, stay."

"Shhh, it's alright, Jimmy," his voice promised. "I'd never leave you," he swore. "Look in the mirror." I shook my head. "Look." I did, and at first I saw both of us, but then his figure faded away, melting into me. "See, I'm right here. I'm always here, see?" I nodded, and went back to lie down in bed. Cameron came to check on me a little while later, where she found me playing Gameboy in bed. I had gone to get that earlier, along with House's old cane. The pills had kicked in fully, and I was starting to get hungry. I managed to talk her into leaving, into understanding that I didn't need her around anymore.

"Unless you wanna sleep together," I offered. "Might make me feel better, you know—in here." I tapped my chest. She chuckled, pretending it was nothing, and walked away. I checked out Alison's ass when she left, and wondered, momentarily, why House had never slept with her. _Because she'd wanna fix me,_ the answer came quick. _And I don't need to be fixed._

Soon after my little meltdown, I returned to the hospital, cane, Vicodin, and all. I see fewer paitents now, and I'm not as nice as I should be, but if everybody else wasn't so stupid, I wouldn't have to be rude. I spend my afternoons ditching clinic duty, playing video games, and listening to my Ipod.

Most nights I still sleep wrapped around that pillow like a rolly polly, but it doesn't hurt as bad—in my heart anyway. I know what people think of me, but I didn't give a damn about them. I mean, who the Hell are they to judge? I'm just a man, trying to do my job, and have fun, while attempting to be in the least amount of pain possible. This is just who I am, a doctor, with a bad leg, crappy jokes, and a dozen Vicodin a day habit. I'm miserable, but…so is everybody else. Anyone who tells you different is full of it. House was wrong though, when he told me I'd be okay; I wasn't; I'm not, but you know what he used to say. I'm alone now—unless hookers count—but we'll be together again someday, in the place where it doesn't hurt. Unless he was lying about that too, but I don't think he was.

…Well, I hope he was telling the truth.


End file.
